He'd burn it for ever,
Bells, belfry and vane,
That swallows would never
Come back there again.
He'd bang down their perches
With cannon and gun,
For churches are churches,
And William's a Hun.
So—mist in the hollow
And leaf falling brown—
Ere home comes the swallow
May William be down!
And high stand the steeples
From Lincoln to Wells
For parsons and peoples,
For birds and for bells!
CHRIST IN FLANDERS
WE had forgotten You, or very nearly—
You did not seem to touch us very nearly—
Of course we thought about You now and then;
Especially in any time of trouble—
We knew that You were good in time of trouble—
But we are very ordinary men.
And there were always other things to think of—
There's lots of things a man has got to think of—
His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;
And so we only thought of You on Sunday—
Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday—
Because there's always lots to fill one's life.
